I Don't Care
by Andatariel.x
Summary: Another night, another fight. I tell myself I don't care. I honestly don't. I swear. Christophe has a fight with his mother, not that he cares. Warning: Contains self-harm and mild violence. ONESHOT


**I Don't Care**

The crack as her hand connects with my face sickens me. I wouldn't normally hit her back but this time I do and she slaps me again. I grab the nearest thing to me and throw it at her.

She walks away as the tray hits the ground with a metallic clang.

I head upstairs rage flooding me. I can't think. I can't see. I can't breathe. I grab a razor blade, my cigarettes and a lighter and lock myself into the bathroom.

I slash the blade over my wrist, light the cigarette, and breathe the nicotine in as I watch blood trickle down my arm. It drips on the floor and I don't care. I don't care. It's my mantra as I try desperately to calm myself down. The bathrooms going to stink of smoke and I don't care. I don't care if she knows. The worst she can do is hit me again. She better not tonight, I'm not sure I could hold back.

I can't hold back. I slam my fist into the wall again and again cigarette on the floor, burning a hole in the mat and I don't care. Let it burn. My fist burns as I slam it into the wall again, the skin splits. I don't care. It hurts more the next hit. I don't care.

Fury pounds through my veins, blood on the wall, I don't care. There's blood on the floor too but that's coming from my wrist. I don't care.

I breathe heavily fighting the panic attack. I can't let myself get any worse because I don't know what I'll do. I don't even trust myself right now. I want to fight someone, anyone, but not her, never her. I'm locked into the bathroom fucking myself up so I don't hurt her. Even though she hit me I still can't do it.

I want to scream at her for everything her and fate have done to me. She robbed me of a father, one that I probably needed, but I don't. I won't. I don't think I ever will. When she's sober again she'll probably cry about how she's a shit parent but right now she's angry with me and I should be more upset but I'm not. I'm just angry.

I want to scream at her for fucking me up. I blame her. She ruined my chances. She should have aborted whilst she had the chance. She didn't. Her choice.

She called me useless, said she didn't care if I ended up on the streets. I want to yell that it's all her fault. You should have fucking aborted. It isn't my fault. Yet here I am messing myself up for her protection.

I tell myself I don't care once again. I wish I didn't. I fucking wish I didn't. I hate her. I want to hate her. I can't wait until I can get away. But I still care. I'd still rather make this mess of myself rather than her. It's stupid. It's masochistic. It makes me angrier.

I punch the wall one more time and wince as the skin splits further. I stop. Pick the cigarette back up, pull the smoke between my lips relish the rush to the head.

I wash the ash down the sink. Rinse my wrist and fist off watching as blood and ash combine in the sink. Fuck it. I clean the sink. Grab a cloth, wipe the wall and floor. Clean the blood away.

She slams into her room and I take the chance to leave the bathroom. I have anti-septic in my room, and bandages. I use them, wrap my wrist up, plaster my knuckles. I hate plasters but certain people will never forgive me if I don't at least look after myself.

I go downstairs, run the sink. I'm doing the fucking dishes that started it. I hope that he's right and cleaning helps disperse my anger too. I'm physically shaking as I run the hot water. I plunge my hands in, it's too hot, nearly scalding. I don't care.

I scrub. I rinse. Methodical. He's right. It helps. The water burns my hands but I won't use the cold tap. I don't know why I'm still stubbornly hurting myself, it doesn't punish her and it hurts. I don't even understand my own thought process sometimes.

Once the dishes are done I pull the plug. Let the water run away. Sink back against the work surface tears streaming down my face. I don't cry often. I tell myself I'm frustrated. Not sad. Not hurt. I'm angry. I want to break something.

I sink back against the cupboards and somehow end up on the floor. I sit and cry. It's like everything is coming out, the anger, the hurt, everything from the past nineteen years, everything I repress.

I don't know why I do this.

I don't care.


End file.
